


Imagine: Castiel telling you that you are enough when your physical insecurities arise after spending the night together.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [39]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comforting Castiel, Fluff, Insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel telling you that you are enough when your physical insecurities arise after spending the night together.

Sitting up, roused from deeply satisfying slumber, legs swinging over the edge of the mattress, you feel instantly the intensity of Castiel’s gaze in the tingling rise of the hair on the back of your neck and the heated flush of your skin.

“Good morning.” He straightens from tying his shoes, broad palms rubbing the bend of his knees as he leans back against the chair. Blue eyes fixed on you and shining their tenderness unbounded as the summer sky, a subtle smile softens his handsome features. His stare is unabashed in its adoration.

“Morning,” you murmur, a bare whisper of breath. Reflexively, your fingers draw the loose drape of the bed sheet further up and around the flesh exposed to the cool air and angel’s warmth inducing regard. Wilting into the protective shield of thin white cotton, the bloom and afterglow of night’s passion fades from memory as your confidence shrinks, shy in the luster of morning light streaming through the spaces between the slats of the motel blinds to illuminate the bodily imperfections which mortify you. All those flaws you wish you could change root in the wakeful rays of the sun – on beaming display for the angel you’ve given yourself to, heart and body and soul.

“Is something wrong?” Uncertainty churns in his gravel inflection. Perhaps you regret your declaration and demonstration of love. Perhaps he moved too quickly to act on his own devotion and desire. Perhaps, as he suspected the first moment he met you and felt that beckoning draw in his celestial being and the venal kindle of attraction stirring his vessel – the thought haunting him even now, the worry enduring despite your many reassurances to sooth his paralytic self-doubt – he is wholly undeserving of your fondness. The contentment brightening his countenance dissolves, the pink pout of his mouth dipping downward into a concerned frown to match the furrow of his brow. The angel believing himself destined to destroy everything he touches trembles in an upwelling of fear at the possibility of losing you.

Convinced a seraph who witnessed the flawlessness of a mankind untainted by original sin must abhor what he sees in your fallen figure, you tuck your chin to your shoulder to conceal the blush burning your cheeks at his question. Your tongue traces the plumped curve of your mouth nervously, the salty taste of sweat and the sweetness of the angel’s amorous affection still lingering on your lips. Eyelashes shuttering to thwart the wet prickle of tears, you bolster your heart against the sting of rejection sure to follow his recognition of your faults in the lust-less clarity of dawn.

Perceiving your pain, it’s the angel who breeches the barriers of self-consciousness building between you. “Look at me.” The rough pad of his fingertip hooks your chin, gently compelling you to peer upward where he stands in front of you.

Fisting the sheet held at the center of your chest to secure your courage, you blink up to meet his reflective blues, your huddled form swirling in the enameled sheen of his irises. Subduing a sob that hitches in the back of your throat at the intimacy of his bearing, a briny droplet springs from the corner of your eye to glisten a gravity-driven trail across your skin.

He swipes the stray tear with his thumb. Cupping your cheeks in both palms, he crouches before you and searches your expression for a breathless minute. His tone is quiet, earnest, when he speaks. “I would do anything for you. Anything. Please, tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you as you’ve helped me.”

“Cas,” you sniffle and shake your head, “you can’t help with this, it’s just… _me_. I’m not-”

“Enough?” he interjects, smoothing a wisp of hair behind your ear. When you meet his unwavering gaze and nod, he adds, “Me either.” He knows – because you’ve taught him – that no matter how many times it’s argued to the contrary, that the lack of belief in oneself, those cracks of confidence, can’t be fixed by words alone, but they can be reinforced with unfaltering support.

You exhale a sigh of resignation, “That’s sweet of you to say, but-”

“It’s not _sweet_ if it’s the truth,” he asserts.

“But you _are_ enough, angel. You always have been. Look at me, I-I’m-” All your myriad of faults flood to the surface and fumble on your tongue. You don’t say the deprecating words aloud, simply thinking them chokes you.

Shifting nearer, he presses his forehead to yours and nuzzles your nose. “You’re beautiful. Exactly as you are, inside and out. Nothing will persuade me otherwise. Not even you. You are enough, so much _more_ than enough. Do you understand?”

Flinging your arms around him in answer, jagged edges of your insecurities cushioned by the comforting give of his vessel and the sincerity of his confession, you sink into his unrelenting embrace. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps you are enough; if not for yourself, then for him. And perhaps together you are enough for one another.


End file.
